Shadow of a Doubt

by Hunter Blain

  Shadow of a Doubt

  Preternatural Chronicles Book 3

  Hunter Blain

  Contents

  A message from Hunter Blain

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  TEASER: MOONLIGHT EQUILIBRIUM (BOOK 3.5)

  MAKE A DIFFERENCE

  ABOUT HUNTER BLAIN

  BOOKS BY HUNTER BLAIN

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Hunter Blain

  Shadow of a Doubt

  Preternatural Chronicles Book 3

  © 2019, Hunter Blain / Argento Publishing, LLC

  info@argentopublishing.com

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

  A message from Hunter Blain

  My name is Hunter, and I’m a wordaholic. I’m also about to break the fourth wall…of your mindhole. Because there is a true story behind this…well…story.

  It begins with two best friends who grew up together, breaking rules and raising hell as they shaped each other’s personalities into the shameless assholes they are today. Well, at least for one of them, but I’ll get to that in a moment. These two boys—let’s call them Hunter and John—were all but inseparable. John excelled at creating music powerful enough to make angels weep and being the funniest asshole in Texas while Hunter dabbled—poorly, I might add—in his humble writings. Because they were self-declared brothers from other mothers, John respected Hunter’s humble writings as much as I—I mean Hunter (stupid third person perspective)—respected John’s musical magic. John’s tunes could have changed the world, one day…

  One evening, after reading one of Hunter’s horrifically detailed short stories about a serial killer, John asked Hunter to write a story about him.

  “Hell yeah, dude! What do you want to be?” Hunter asked, brimming with honor and biting back a very manly squee.

  “A vampire,” John responded with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “But not one of those sparkly ones. A true bad ass!”

  “Done!” Hunter crowed with a smile and an accompanying high five.

  “No, dude. Promise. Promise you’ll write and finish a book about me. You are the most prolific writer of our generation!” John said. (Something like that. I might be paraphrasing a little, but you get the gist of it). “I would consider it an honor to live on for eternity with your words as my life’s blood.”

  Hunter agreed, never to realize the weight of that promise until one Sunday morning when his mother called, crying incoherently.

  John…had died.

  Hunter was left in a cold world without his best friend and doppelgänger, and still thinks about that phone call to this day. How the morning light crept through the bedroom window while Hunter stared at the ceiling, noticing how the popcorn texture created cruel, jagged shadows. How everything started to blur as his chest was crushed beneath the weight of what he was hearing, each word stacking heavily upon the other until only fitful, ragged gasps of air could escape his throat. Only fiery tears existed, especially after the horrific realization that Hunter now had to make some of the hardest phone calls of his life to the circle of friends who orbited around John’s solar pull.

  Their bright star was no more, extinguished in an instant, leaving their universe a colder and darker place.

  John not only left Hunter, but a friend named Valenta as well. There was also Nathanial and Depweg. The friends were each stricken numb with the loss of such a beloved flare of life. But…

  When the three found out that Hunter was keeping his promise to write the greatest story ever told—starring their dear friend, John—they demanded to be a part of the adventure. Each of them immediately knew what type of supernatural character they wanted to play in this urban fantasy eulogy. It would be a funeral pyre of words, and their fictional personas would be John’s pallbearers.

  So please, as you read the following pages, feel free to laugh. Laugh at the situations John is placed in and his dickish dialogue to those around him, because John is 100% in this story without alteration (albeit he is a vampire). Laugh and let his memory live on inside the theater of your mind. Like he does in ours.

  Thank you, sincerely, from the bottom of my beating heart, for giving my best friend the chance to live again. You are part of this magical ritual, and that would make him the happiest man in the…well, wherever the hell he is.

  Cheers,

  ~Hunter

  Epigraph

  “Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt.”

  William Shakespeare

  “I am the author of my life. Unfortunately, I am writing in pen and cannot erase my mistakes.”

  Bill Kaulitz

  “Real unicorns hate rainbows.”

  Shayne Silvers

  Seal of the Council

  Prologue

  Water dripped incessantly every few seconds in the dark, freezing prison. There were no windows in Queen Mab’s dungeon, so Oberon—the once king of all of Faerie—had no idea how much time had passed since his imprisonment. Had it been years? Decades? Only the water kept him company.

  Oberon refused to scream or lash out, knowing Mab would relish any show of emotion. Instead, he sat in meditation, dreaming of what he would do once he escaped. As he closed his eyes, his estranged wife flowed to the forefront of his thoughts, and he remembered.

  Oberon had danced with the idea of absorbing the Unseelie Court for centuries. Though he had proclaimed himself King of all Faerie, he had known in the back of his mind that it was only in name. Everyone had been aware of Queen Mab and her unquestioned rule over half of Faerie. Therefore, the time had come to stop fantasizing over being the one true king. The time had come to attack and make it a reality. No one would dare question or doubt King Oberon. Not even in private.

  Tatiana had argued with her husband over the necessity of the Winter and Autumn Courts.

  “We could rule them better than that bitch sitting on the throne,” Oberon had roared in his blinding anger. Tatiana had simply stood with arms crossed and glaring at her husband. Taking a deep breath, Oberon had softened his tone and pleaded, “Imagine it; Spring and summer in perpetuity! Flowers would always bloom, while full trees would wave in the warm wind! We can make it that way, wife.”

  “There can be no light without darkness, dear husband. We need the winter and autumn just as they need the summer and spring. It is this perfect dance of balance and equality that gives way to life in Midworld.”


  “Who cares about Midworld!” Oberon had bellowed, losing what small semblance of control he had had over his emotions. “I want that throne, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me!” As Oberon had turned to leave and prepare his private army, he had been surprised when his opinionated wife had said nothing. Now he knew why. She had betrayed him by warning Mab about his intentions of overthrowing the Unseelie Court. Mab had been waiting with Tatiana by her side. The loyal army of King Oberon had faltered and kneeled before the combined queens of Faerie, leaving the king alone to face the Unseelie.

  Oberon had refused to accept his fate and had battled everything that had been thrown at him. Frost giants wielding ice clubs, elves with blue eyes and skin casting dark magic, shrieking banshees, and even a cyclops had fallen to Oberon’s blade and prowess. It wasn’t until Tatiana had stood in front of him as he swung his sword that he had hesitated, allowing for Queen Mab herself to cast the powerful spell that had frozen the king in place. All of Faerie had known about his defeat and subsequent imprisonment.

  “Bitch,” Oberon barked through bared teeth. His face was sore from scowling for so long in the darkness. “You’re going to pay for this, dear wife—both of you will.”

  Oberon could feel his fists shaking as wrath built a fire in his core that made his skin crawl.

  “Maybe I can be of assistance,” purred a smooth, female voice from the darkness.

  Startled, Oberon’s eyes shot open only to be flooded with absolute blackness. Two amethysts appeared a few feet away from him, followed by a gleaming smile of sharp teeth. Oberon was perplexed at how teeth could shine in the complete absence of light.

  “Who might you be, specter?” Oberon asked in the tone of someone who was used to being the authority in the room.

  “A humble servant of the one true king of Faerie,” cooed the voice as the smile grew to a full Cheshire grin.

  1

  “It’s been taken care of. The limo driver’s family has received a sizable life insurance check that they hadn’t known about.”

  “Thank you, Da. I mean it. I-I don’t know what I’d do without you, man,” I admitted in a heartfelt tone.

  “They’ll be financially secure for generations to come,” Da explained without making eye contact with me. This wasn’t the first time he had had to clean up a sizable mess.

  I noticed his reserved tone and distant posture.

  “It was an accident,” I lamely tried to explain with my hands out and palms up in a gesture that pleaded understanding.

  “Your lack of control and forethought is not an excuse to murder the innocent. I had hoped the incident with the boy and his mother would be the last.” There was a razor’s edge to his voice that cut deep. Da had been my guiding light for over fifty years, and it hurt to bathe in his disappointment. I would have preferred screaming outrage to this.

  “I—” I started, my words getting caught in my throat.

  “—need to go see Father Thomes and ask for forgiveness,” Da suggested tersely while returning his attention to the spreadsheet on his iPad.

  I took his subtle cue and left my Fortress of Solitaire without another word, shame stealing my voice.

  The night was warm and humid, with thin clouds rolling overhead. Instead of sprinting to the church, I decided to walk and assess my thoughts. Father Thomes was going to be less than pleased with me for killing another completely innocent human. Lilith, how much tar had I thrown on my already blackened soul this time? Thirty years of trying to bleach my sins might have been undone in a few moments of careless rage.

  Some time passed with me dragging my feet before I looked up and saw the church of Father Thomes Philseep. Taking a deep, preparing breath, I stepped onto the landing and stood before the heavy front door.

  As usual, the door began to open without having to knock. It was downright spooky that he always knew when I was at the front door. I just assumed Da let him know when I was coming, but then again, my friend and mentor did have holy abilities that I personally didn’t know the limits to.

  Father Thomes stood at the front door wearing his traditional priest getup, complete with the white collar atop his black robes. Lately, he had a slight hunch to him and kind of shuffled as he walked, signifying that my mortal friend was, indeed, aging. It felt like the blink of an eye since we had first met nearly three decades ago. He had already been middle-aged then, but now, I constantly questioned how much longer I had with him.

  A thought struck that first made my worry grow before souring and sickening me: Did we have enough time to undo the damage I had done with the limo driver? It disgusted me that I was more worried about my own selfish desires than the well-being of the priest who had risked everything to work with a vampire with over five hundred years of sin on his soul.

  Father Thomes, who had been smiling, must have seen something he didn’t like on my face because his jovial expression faltered.

  “What is it, my son?”

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” I exhaled slowly.

  Many words could be used to describe me: buff, witty, merciless, and sexual tyrannosaur; but contrite was usually not one of them. So when Father Thomes saw my expression and heard the tone of my voice, he knew I had done something catastrophic.

  Feeling the situation, Father Thomes nodded somberly while letting the door open all the way. I followed him inside as he shuffled toward a stone staircase that led deep into the ground, the door creaking shut behind us as if on its own volition.

  After making our way to the bottom, Father Thomes walked to the end of a lamplit hallway with doors on either side. Turning a knob on the wall above the fireplace, a warm flame sprang to life, dancing its excitement at being born.

  Turning, Thomes slowly sat with a groan in his favorite padded reading chair. The thought had never occurred to me until right then that maybe the wooden pews where we normally had our conversations were too uncomfortable for his elderly frame now.

  Thomes sat and looked at me expectantly.

  If I could sweat, it would look like I had just gotten out of the shower, I was so nervous.

  After a drawn-out, deep inhale that I held for a moment, I released my breath and relayed the whole story. I held nothing back as I described how I had mentally decimated a mortal’s mind while in a fury, at which time I had had to make a decision.

  “I just don’t know if it was the right choice, Father Thomes,” I said with a furrowed brow while his stony face processed my blunder.

  “John, I know we agreed that I would forgive you for your sins when I first took you under my wing, but this…this is egregious, even for you.”

  My heart sunk as he spoke. I could feel my shoulders slump as my gaze lowered to the ground in submission. I stared at the floor as the light from the fire danced across the rug.

  “Deus, Pater misericordiárum, qui per mortem et resurrectiónem Fílii sui mundum sibi reconciliávit et Spíritum Sanctum effúdit in remissiónem peccatórum, per ministérium Ecclésiæ indulgéntiam tibi tríbuat et pacem. Et ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” As Father Thomes finished the passage for absolution of sin, he made the sign of the cross. I wanted to sob, knowing I didn’t deserve forgiveness, but relieved to receive it.

  “Amen,” I said softly while screwing my eyes shut, feeling the relief wash over me.

  “There is still much to be done for penance, John.”

  With a grateful, understanding tone, I said, “I know, Father. The physics of religion. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, and all that.”

  “I’m glad you understand, my son.”

  After a closing pause on the subject, I decided to change the topic so as not to press my luck on forgiveness.

  “How’s he doing?” I asked, sitting up straight again in my seat and thumbing back toward the hallway. I was already feeling like my old self again.

  Just a few doors down the hall from where we sat was my maker, Ulric
, who had tried to kill me a few times too many. Father Thomes had promised to watch over him and keep him in his vampire-specific cell. This would ensure that he didn’t die and make me the last vampire, which would cause the apocalypse. You should already know this unless you are some sort of roulette-playing sadist who picks up a book series at random.

  “The blood supply has been an invaluable asset.” Father Thomes was referencing the blood bank that my five-inch faerie companion was in the process of setting up for me. “Though he isn’t drinking as much as I would like.”

  “I am honestly surprised that he is drinking at all. Figured he’d be all depressed and stuff,” I said, feeling the warmth of the flames blazing in a fireplace that was so big a person could escape through it—I should know.

  “We came to an understanding,” Father Thomes said without a trace of levity. It made my blood run cold…er that he could force Ulric to act according to his will. Then again, I couldn’t be that surprised—the dude had God on speed dial. Plus, our first meeting had been a quick but epic battle that had showcased the immense power he could wield.

  “He sleeps most of the time, waking only to feed,” Father Philseep continued.

  “Yeah, he sure does enjoy his catnaps.” I thought about Ulric’s affinity for slumber and how it had ultimately tipped the scales of power in my favor. Even though he had been more than two hundred and seventy years older when he had made me, he had been asleep for almost four hundred years in his combined lifetime. It was also worth mentioning that the last sleep he had partaken in had been forced by me when I had burned him alive and left nothing but a skeleton, or so I’d thought. Now I knew that some small portion of him had remained—probably the brain—and that he had slept while on the brink of death until he had been somehow brought back—perhaps by lazy writing or something.